


Kiss Meme Fics

by latenightwatchman



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: M/M, kiss meme
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:24:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightwatchman/pseuds/latenightwatchman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just putting together the kiss meme fics</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Awkward Kiss

On reflection, a deserted changing room littered with discarded tracksuit bottoms and forgotten underwear wasn’t the ideal location for a seduction.

But Jos had still stayed behind at his request to help him find his ‘lucky socks’ and if the man was prepared to delay his arrival to victory drinks for a pretense that paper thin, he was obviously ready to be seduced.

Joe took a deep breath, steadying himself for the big plunge. He reckoned that taking the opportunity to admire Jos’ arse as he looked carefully beneath a bench was an important part of the psyching-up process.

Unfortunately he became a little too engrossed in this stage of his preparation and as a result was completely unprepared for Jos springing swiftly to his feet, bringing him chest flush to chest with the Yorkshireman.

Doing his best to capitalise on his teammate’s momentum, he closed his eyes and went for it.

Craning his neck to the side he pressed insistent lips to what he imagined would be at first a mouth firm with surprise, then melting away to a deep and lingering kiss.

What his lips actually met was the bridge of Jos’ nose.

Eyes closed and heart pounding, it took a good three seconds and a confused noise from Jos for him to realise that he had hideously misjudged the distance.

“Mate…what are you doing?” came Jos’ soft voice.

Joe flushed a brilliant red and took rapid steps backwards. His hands flew up to cover his mouth; a mouth that for once was lacking its sunny grin.

“Look, I’m sorry Jos, I was just…” He trailed off and stared at the floor. “I must have got it all wrong.”

Jos began to grin and closed the distance between them. “Only the angle,” he laughed and, taking Joe’s face in firm but gentle hands, pulled him in for a chaste but sincere kiss.

Responding with great enthusiasm, Joe wrapped his arms around the wicket keeper.

But before he could accelerate further, Jos pulled away.

“Do you not want to find your socks first?” he asked.

His only reply was the curve of Joe’s lips as he laughed into the kiss.


	2. Good Morning Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the angst!

The first thing Mark was aware of was the brilliant glare of early morning sunshine beating against his eyelids. The curtains hung half open; pulled into position last night by a hasty, drunken and inadequate shove.

The second thing was that there was significantly less room on the bed that he was accustomed to.

The blonde head rested against his left shoulder was heavy but familiar. There was a light scratching there from the remains of the product that clung as stubbornly as ever to David’s fringe.

He was rather less used to the scene to his right.

Ben’s head was thrown off to the right, neck craned at an improbable angle. Even in sleep his face could be furious. Something in his dream had obviously displeased him as his strangely pale eyebrows were drawn into a line of blond disapproval.

Despite this rather off putting aspect, his left hand was still curled gently around Mark’s hip.

The barely-there contact began to sting as his awareness grew.

David’s presence in his bed was comfortable, almost routine. It was the successor to successful training sessions and pre-match boredom. It was about as uncomplicated as these things ever were.

Ben was nothing if not complicated.

It stung his pride to admit it, but nothing would ever occur between them if alcohol hadn’t got there first.

Yesterday’s victory had meant a long night on sober patrol. The boys had done their best to get him to dance.

When David did this it was a pleasant relief. It was daft moves and a quick whispered promise of fun to be had later.

With Ben, it was something close to torture. The ginger man was no better a dancer, but his wild gesticulations were interspersed with groping touches that Mark was almost too ashamed to return.

‘Almost’ being the key word because (he almost blushed at the memory) when Ben’s wandering hands had grabbed David’s arse instead of his own the reaction was not David shoving him away, but instead taking both their arms and dragging them into a taxi.

Mark didn’t think that he’d dared to take a breath from that moment until they were all entwined on the bed.

The instinct to shield his eyes from the harsh sun battled with his desire not to disturb his teammates’ sleep. He compromised by twisting his head to the right.

This new position brought his face a breath away from Ben’s neck. He examined the stubble at his nape where his red hair was cropped short.

As though even in sleep he had noticed Mark’s attention, Ben rolled his body around so that they were suddenly face to face. Grey eyes blinked themselves slowly into wakefulness.

The other man was clearly still half-asleep because his reaction to Mark’s proximity was a slow, lazy smile. His turn had brought his body closer still to Mark’s and, after all this time, after all those months of what had seemed like hopeless waiting, he allowed himself to enjoy the spreading warmth.

“Good morning,” the bowler said in a low, warm voice, smiled in return, and pressed a lingering kiss to the other man’s parted lips.

Before he could deepen it and resume last night’s activities, he felt Ben freeze beside him. He pulled away with a speed that was impressive considering that he had been asleep five seconds ago.

Mark was helpless to do anything but sit there numbly as Ben clattered to the floor, pulling on articles of clothing seemingly at random in his blind haste to leave the room.

The only thing he left behind was the slam of the door.

Mark stared straight ahead. Eventually the noise seemed to penetrate through to David and the other man mumbled sleepily next to him, “Whass goin’ on?”

“Nothing babe, go back to sleep,” he replied softly.

He stared at the door in vain until Ben’s return was nothing more than a distant dream.


	3. Jealous Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wood/Stokes, jealous kiss. A little longer and high on angst

If there was any justice in the world, he should be happy. He should be thrumming with excitement and satisfaction, ready to take on the world with a grin.

This changing room should feel like a launching pad and he himself ready to spring out and take all that he could.

Outside, the sun is fading from blazing blue to mellow lilac. The ground is trickling away to emptiness, the occasional drunken warble rising up into the cool evening air.

Victory is in their sights, and he knows that he has played his part to bring it ever closer.

And yet that sweetness sours in his mouth.

He has taken his first Ashes wicket today. By rights that should be exhilarating, vindicating and dazzlingly new.

Only old wounds have a horrible habit of making themselves known.

In the corner furthest from the door, Ben is sat with Joe.

The two men have their heads pressed together and - although he is not close enough to hear their conversation - their tone is decidedly conspiratorial.

There’s an uncomfortable twisting tightness at the bottom of his stomach. Whenever he forces his mind to focus on it it’s as though his tongue has brushed against a cut lip and surge of copper bitterness fills his mouth.

Their heads are close together, Joe’s blond mop wild enough to brush against Ben’s closer crop.

Joe’s lips momentarily purse as he mutters something and it must have been damn hilarious because Ben throws his head back and laughs, broad shoulders free for once from tension.

Mark can make him laugh just like that. He just hasn’t for a while.

Back up North, it’s easier. He tries to say to himself when that strange loneliness strikes that this is because they are both closer to home there, closer to themselves. He tries to say to himself that it isn’t that there is less competition.

With these boys, you can hardly stick your leg out for fear of tripping up a future star or cricketing saviour.

Joe’s pretty and near perfect and the darling of the press and, judging by the way both Buttler and Cook practically drool over him, he’s not exactly short of offers. So why does he have to want Ben?

Only then Joe draws back, gives Ben a hearty pat on the back, and heaves his kit bag onto his back. Mark’s not sure how he does it but with his parting grin he all but glows with platonic warmth.

He catches Mark’s stare as he heads for the door and pauses to give him a friendly nod. “You alright there mate?” he asks and an edge of concern enters his voice as he notices the intensity of Mark’s gaze.

“Yeah I’m fine,” he replies with a vain attempt at a smile. He tries to shrug the tension from his shoulders and match Joe grin for cheerful grin. “"Big day tomorrow.”

“I know. I was just chatting to Ben about not letting it get to you.”

Joe takes his leave with another comradely pat to Mark’s shoulder.

Sitting down sharply and tugging at his laces, Mark inwardly chides himself. That was stupid. He was careless. You can’t get caught staring at a team mate. If you get caught staring, then people start to whisper.

His self-recriminations rob him of his concentration and he soon tangles his fingers up in knots. By the time he works himself free with a frustrated sigh, Ben is the only other player still left in the changing room.

He flings the shoes into his kit bag and refocuses on pulling on his battered old trainers.

As he does, he becomes aware of Ben’s gaze on the top of his lowered head. For a man who manages to be so consistently oblivious, he has an uncanny of forcing his own presence to be felt.

“What’s all that about?” comes his flat voice from across the room.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” He runs a finger where the grubby edge of his trainer meets his sock. He knows now that his actions are undeniably stalling. He grits his teeth and sits up straight.

Whilst he had been lost in his petulant floorgazing, Ben has halfway crossed the room. He stands in the centre, wearing his civvies and a perplexed frown. His team shirt has been exchanged for a grey shirt with long sleeves which hides his arms’ tattoos but practically showcases their definition. This impression is only heightened by the tension with which he has folded them.

He leans back on the bench and forces his hands to lie still on his knees. He read once that this is a pose that can be used to show confidence. He won’t be seen off, running scared. Not now. Not this time.

He meets Ben’s eyes as he says again, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ben scoffs. “Come off it mate. The whole time I was talking to Joe you were looking like he’d pissed in your chips. What’ve you been up to with him?”

He forces himself to match Ben’s tone, his voice frosting away into brittleness with each word. “Oh I’ve not been up to anything with him.  Don’t know about you though.”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say there but you’d better leave it out now.” Ben steps ever closer. He unfolds his arms so one finger can point accusingly at Mark. He looms over the seated man, his familiar anger rising in his tone.

He does his best to sneer in his response but knows from Ben’s unimpressed gaze that he’s failed. He can never quite seem to manage to arrange his face so that it can cut and hurt like Ben’s can.

The victory would appear to be Ben’s. He certainly thinks so. He leans in close - the smell of recently applied Lynx is overbearing - and aligns his face to mutter directly into Mark’s  ear. His Adam’s apple jumps once in his throat as Ben’s breath tickles his cheek.

“Maybe I do know what you mean. But I also know that you wouldn’t be stupid enough to suggest that. That…sort of thing is not what I do.”

All of the incredibly physical evidence to the contrary is carefully stored in Mark’s brain and at these words it all comes flooding to the forefront.

He knows with every part of his body that ‘that sort of thing’ is exactly what Ben does. More than that, Ben loves it. He can deny it to his dying breath, but Mark has felt the ecstasy that runs through him when he can lose himself in Mark, in stolen kisses and furtive trysts. He knows this is true, even if sobriety can never play a part.

He tears his hands from his knees where they have been fisting in the loose fabric of his tracksuit bottoms. He tangles them as best he can in Ben’s short hair and twists the other man round to face him.

He all but smashes his mouth to Ben’s. His lips are as ever surprisingly soft. He had laughed when he’d discovered that the man religiously applied lip balm when on the field but he had come to appreciate it. Their softness is now parted in surprise and he seizes the moment to flick forward his tongue and deepen the kiss.

The urgency of his movement overbalances Ben and he falls awkwardly to one knee, somehow hardly breaking the kiss. Mark notes the change and wraps his arms more securely about Ben’s back. A small yet wild voice at the back of his mind points out what a drastic reversal this is.

Normally it’s him who ends up on his knees.

He enjoys the small tingle of novelty as Ben’s mouth moves against his. In his breaks for breath, he can hear the smallest gasps that the other man lets slip.

Right now, at this moment, he is causing that. He is causing that soft moan to fall from his lips. At this point in time, he is the one supplying that rush that Ben needs. Not Joe, not anyone. Not even his wife.

Mark thinks that Ben might just have malicious telepathy. In an instant, he freezes against Mark. He pulls away, pushing roughly against Mark’s arms, sitting back on his haunches and letting his face sink into his hands.

Waves of guilt and regret crash simultaneously in Mark’s mind. He waits in silence for Ben’s face to resurface.

When it does, he is as cold and as blank as stone.

“I’m sorry mate, I…I won’t-”

“It’s fine.” Ben’s tone is short, curt. He addresses the patch of wall next to Mark’s head. “We can just forget about it.”

Mark nods and remains seated until Ben has left the room.

He knows that he may well have just ruined everything. He knows that he might well now be lucky to get so much as a pat on the back from the other man.

But he also knows that Ben kissed him back.


	4. Kiss on the Forehead

If there’s anything that can make a teetotal cricketer feel drunk, taking the wicket that wins the Ashes has to be a contender.

He knows that he’s sat on the changing room bench with a peg poking insistently into the back of his neck, but his head is flying at approximately a thousand feet above Trent Bridge and his heart is desperately trying to catch up.

Across the room, Finn and Broad are practically a blur as their long limbs whirl frantically in a victory dance. He watches them for a while, a lazy smile spreading across his face.

He is brought out from his blissful reverie by his captain’s quiet voice.

“The man of the moment,” Cook pronounces.

Mark is amazed at how clearly the words come out. Judging by the gentle swaying movements of his captain, the man is all but paralytic on beer and disbelief.

He gestures at the empty bench beside him. He doesn’t at this moment in time much fancy a lap full of drunken Cooky.

Alastair takes the seat gratefully and his swaying soon brings him to rest against Mark’s shoulder. He sighs happily for having found this secure anchorage.

Mark sits still, rather enjoying the grounding weight against him.

The two men watch the antics of their team-mates in companionable silence. The uproar is such that Mark doesn’t hear his captain when he first starts speaking.

“I didn’t think we’d do it you know. Not that…Not that I don’t have faith in you lot. You’re excellent. All of you. No captain could ask for more.” Despite the small ocean of alcohol in his system, his voice echoes with something deeper, something that remains solid at the very core of him.

“I just thought…well, I guess I thought it was my last one.”

Mark doesn’t know what to say. He can still feel how new he is to all this. Jimmy would know what to say. Or Broady. But then he wonders if his newness is why he’s being told this. Alastair is yet to invest months into personally assuring that Mark sees his as the consummate leader, self-assured and always heading in the right direction.

Alastair laughs, shaking his head at himself. “I’m sorry. What I really meant to say is thank you.”

Mark reaches round to squeeze his shoulder. He has found this gesture to be an essential part of the sportsman’s arsenal of reassuring gestures.

“None of us did skip. Think it was your last I mean. I’m just glad to have done me best.”

Alastair climbs to his feet. His inebriated smile is firmly back in place. He takes hold of a peg for support and, leaning in slowly, brushes his lips gently against Mark’s forehead.

“Thank you,” he says quietly and melts back into the crush of celebrating bodies.

Mark grins, and lets himself be entertained.


End file.
